You walk the broken stones alone,
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Sunlight calculates its form,
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Some quick shadow you didn¡¯t want,
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Ideas spinning in your arms.
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Could it be we won
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And all the various wraps of promise have been verged
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The troubadour is here, you heard,
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The youngest son alive, it¡¯s first,
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About to learn, about to burst.
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I¡¯m still turning from the worst.
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Going right to your flight,
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It was too late one night,
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Stop me at the door, stop me at the door
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Too late to be what you were just before.
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Stop me at the door, stop me at the door,
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Or you couldn¡¯t know that you¡¯ve been there before.
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The trap being reckless since he failed,
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Hold lock gold a certain trail,
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The lesson¡¯s taken all away,
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Been all and counting what you may.
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And there¡¯s nothing left been paid,
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A kid is gone, a kid is gone,
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For to one day and makes me smile,
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It will take time along the while
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The country in is from the old.
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You¡¯re flashing, growing old.
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Going right to your flight,
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It was too late one night,
|
Stop me at the door, stop me at the door
|
Too late to be what you were just before.
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Stop me at the door, stop me at the door,
|
Or you couldn¡¯t know that you¡¯ve been there before.
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Stop me at the door, stop me at the door
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To let you be what you were just before.
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Stop me at the door, stop me at the door,
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Stop me at the door.
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Stop me at the door, stop me at the door,
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Stop me at the door.
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-----------------
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The Troubadour
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A.C. Newman |